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My Father, me, my sister Liz and my Mother, Sue, in 1972. I love this picture, not just for the emotion it evokes, but for it’s style. This just screams 1970s.

[The following was written December 8th, 2005]

My Father died Thursday. He was 84.

He was my first hero. The first man I ever looked up to. Growing up, he was my God. Bigger than life. There was nothing he couldn’t do. He was an accomplished man. An unbelievably smart man (genius level IQ). I loved him dearly.

I have a lot of very fond memories of my Father. I thought I might share some with you all.

Where to begin. God, I know when I’m done with this I’m going to think of a whole slew of other great moments that I will have wished I shared. I’ll just go with what’s in my head right now. This is so fucking hard to write.

I was 10 years old. My Father, Mother, younger sister Sharon and I took a month or so long vacation in Switzerland and Itlay. We began in Zurich and traveled by train and hired car from the Swiss Alps on down to Naples and back. It was an amazing trip, one I’ll never forget..

I particularly remember two moments in Rome. We were staying at, I believe, the St. Elizabeth Hotel in Rome, Italy. It was a small hotel that was really a number of converted apartments. I remember it being a very warm feeling, home-style hotel. It was located upstairs from Harry’s Bar, the famous chain of bar/restaurants that can be found around the world.

While we were in Rome, my Mother and I were both sick with the stomach flu (I had an infamous moment at the Vatican during that trip, but I’ll share that story another time). So the family was cooped up inside the hotel room for a couple of days while we got better. My poor Dad, eager to explore Rome, instead had to stay in a Hotel room helping mend his family.

One afternoon, when I was feeling a little better, my Dad asked me if I’d like to take a walk with him at a nearby park. I was still a bit queasy and weak, but I was also itching to get out of the room. So, we walked for a while and talked. I’m not quite sure what we talked about, but I recall getting tired and feeling a little queasy, so we sat together on a park bench and watched the people in the park. The ancient wall that surrounded Rome was nearby. We could see it from where we sat. It was a beautiful, sunny day out. It was nice being there with my Dad.

My Father and I outside the 94th Aero Squadron Restaurant in Van Nuys, California, 1979. I was 8 years old. “Nice jumpsuit, Dad!” “Nice face, Jonah!”

It may have been that night, sometime late, that my father and I went down to Harry’s Bar and had two espressos. Yes, my Father let me drink coffee growing up. We sat outside on the street at a small table. I can picture my Father sitting across from me outside of Harry’s Bar. We sat there, sipped our espresso and talked. I remember talking to him about Garfield. When we were in Florence we found an American bookstore and discovered the Garfield collections. My entire family devoured them. It was fun stuff at the time. It was a great time.

Years before that, my parents took myself, my younger sister Sharon and my immediate older sister Liz on an absolutely amazing trip through the South Pacific. We hit Tahiti, Fiji, American Samoa and Western Samoa. We visited numerous small islands around the area. We stayed almost entirely in villages during this trip, which made the experience all that much more strange.

In one village in one of the Samoas, my Father and I went to watch them apply tribal tattoos to one of the men in the village. This is some sort of tribal ritual, the full meaning of which I couldn’t tell you. But they’d often ink you from your upper waste to just above your knee. We watched a man take sticks and ink and place incredible patterns on a young man who was clearly in some pain. We watched for a short while. At one point my father leaned over to me and asked, “Jonah, would you like a tattoo?” “NO WAY, DAD!” I believe was my response. Was he joking? Probably. But now I sort of wish I had said yes! Can you imagine being 10 years old, returning to school that fall with a tattoo you received in a village in the South Pacific? That would have been something.

The other memory from that trip took place in another Samoan village. A group of us went for a hike to check out a waterfall. But in order to get to the waterfall, it required you to climb down some rather steep terrain. My father was in his mid-to-late 50s at the time, had one hip replaced already and didn’t think it was a good idea. So, my sisters and Mother went on ahead, while my Father, myself and a villager lady went back to swim in a small river that ran near the village.

The three of us were swimming, having a generally swell time (you have swell times when you’re eight years old), when all of a sudden I was snatched up out of the water by a giant Samoan man. I kid you not, he was a giant. My father was 5′11″ and this guy was definitely much bigger than he was. This large Samoan was upset I was swimming in his river. He was drunk. His two friends tried to get him to let go of me, while my Father rushed over to rescue me. Shortly after he picked me up, he set me down. I don’t quite recall what happened after that, but I have an image of my Father talking with the three men while the village woman held me and drew me away from the men. Soon after that my Father followed. It was quite scary, but there was my Father come to save me. If I recall correctly, this giant Samoan was one of the son’s of the Chief of the village. He certainly got in some trouble.

I have countless other memories I could share. The many baseball games we went to (usually Dodger’s vs. Cincinatti Reds since he was from Cincinatti). The huge number of UCLA Bruins football and basketball games we went to (my Father was a Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at the school for many years). Oh, especially the USC/UCLA Football games. Spending time with him on our very first computer, an Atari 800, which began my lifelong fascination with technology. Out on the front lawn with the ball and bat. My Father picking my younger sister and I up from school on Friday’s to take us to get Ice Cream at Baskin-Robbins. Playing Golf with him on Thursdays and Sundays every week (don’t’ all Doctor’s play golf on Thursdays?). Or sitting by the pool with him on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Of course, the period where he became fascinated with Country Music, wore cowboy hats and cowboy boots regularly, and drove around in a big, white, Cadillac Eldorado convertible might be filled with mostly embarrassing memories, but I’d never give up a single one.

I guess the common theme that runs through all my memories of my Father– including the many I don’t mention– is one of just hanging out with my Dad. I realize now that we did a lot of hanging out in my lifetime. And when you’re a kid and you get to hang out with your Dad, well, that’s just one of the best things in the world.

The last time I hung out with my Dad was three or four years ago. We went to a Clippers/Laker game together. I sided with the Clippers while my Father took the Lakers. The Clippers won. We had fun.

My Father hasn’t been well for a little over 18 months now. Longer than that, really, but the last 18 months he was in a nursing care center where he slowly lost his strength and mind. Thursday night, December 8th, sometime around 5:00 in the evening, he drew breath for the last time.

I could say so much about my Father, but I can’t type anymore. This has really become too hard, but I’m glad I got this much out. I’m OK, but I do miss the man dearly.

I love you, Dad. I’m going to go have another good long cry for you now.